The Cannons of Lucknow (32 page)

So enthusiastic was the crowd's welcome that the four giant eunuchs marching beside the litter in the silk ceremonial uniforms with the fish emblem of the royal house emblazoned on them—hitherto reserved for state occasions—were compelled to use the flat of their
tulwars
to hold back the jostling throng. But many ignored the
tulwars
, pressing forward eagerly for a sight of their new ruler, and Hazrat Mahal, in the manner born, waved a languid, bejeweled hand from behind the parted curtain in acknowledgement.

Yesterday, Mirza Guffur recalled, she had led her troops—also in the manner born—from the
howdah
of a fighting elephant. Despite his misgivings, his proud old heart warmed to her. Of humble birth she might be, but now that her chance had come, she was behaving like a queen, with dignity and courage, seeking to save the throne which the British had stolen and which Wajid Ali—to his eternal shame—had not lifted a finger to preserve. True, she wanted it for her son, but he was of the blood royal, even if she was not, and a Muslim king of Oudh was infinitely preferable to domination by the Hindu Nana of Bithur. The old general watched Hazrat Mahal descend from the palanquin and mount the palace steps, assisted by Mammu Khan—a dissolute courtier, who was said to be her lover—and once again found himself approving the regal presence she assumed.

The one-time dancer was not young. Seen at close hand, her face was lined and coarsened by age, but she had painted out the blemishes very skillfully and her figure, in its richly shimmering silk robe, was that of a mature woman, still holding more than a hint of the beauty for which she had once been famous. And—a touch of genius, this—on her head she wore a warrior's plumed steel helmet adorned, as her eunuchs' resplendent uniforms were, with the fish emblem of the ruling house of Oudh.

“She makes a fine show,” the Moulvi observed with grudging admiration. He came to stand at the general's side, an odd little smile playing about his bearded lips as he watched the Begum turn at the head of the steps to wave farewell to the surging crowd in the street below.

“A braver show, I fancy,
Pir Moorshid
, than your late patron the so-called Peishwa of the Mahrattas,” Mirza Guffur suggested, with thinly concealed malice. “The much-vaunted Nana Sahib, who has suffered so many defeats at General Havelock's hands that he seems scarcely to merit the reward of 25,000 rupees which the British governor-general has placed on his head!”

“The Nana is a more trustworthy ally than the noble Man Singh,” the Moulvi retorted. “He would betray us to the British if he thought it would be to his advantage.”

Gomundi Singh, the long-serving
subedar
of native infantry whom the Hindu sepoys had elected as their commander, ventured a halfhearted protest at these insults to his fellow Brahmins, but the two Mohammedans affected not to have heard him, and he relapsed into his customary watchful silence. All his life he had been a simple soldier, content to serve the company with unquestioning loyalty, until he became entitled to a pension. Secure in the respect and affection with which his British officers regarded him, he had not wanted to join the mutiny but had been unable to resist the pressure the sepoys of his regiment had brought to bear on him, which in the end had overcome his scruples and compelled him to embrace their cause.

Now, admitted to the council of war by virtue of a rank he had never, in his wildest dreams, expected to attain, he frequently found himself ignored by the other members of the council, his opinion—even if it were sought—seldom if ever acted upon. He felt out of his depth in the company he had to keep, conscious that he was neither an aristocrat like Mirza Guffur nor an intellectual like the Moulvi. Since the death of
Rissaldar
Yakub Khan of Fisher's Horse—who had been elected to command of the cavalry and who had unhappily fallen victim to a lal-kote marksman a week or so ago—Gomundi Singh had become acutely aware of his own isolation. He and the more forceful Yakub Khan had been cast in the same mould. They were both professional soldiers, with more experience of war than any of the other council members, and although of different religions, on questions of military strategy they had been of like mind. He had made a point of supporting any proposal that the cavalry general put forward; in return, Yakub had always consulted him, and their alliance had precluded amateur interference in purely military matters.

Following Yakub Khan's unfortunate death, however, the Moulvi had begun to assert himself. Not content with his appointment as adviser to the Begum, he had assumed command of the cavalry on her authority alone, without a vote being taken. If his earlier threats were to be taken seriously, he might well be making a bid for command of the entire Oudh army. The Begum trusted him implicitly. He had her ear, and if the Moulvi could contrive to place the blame for yesterday's reverse on Mirza Guffur and himself, then Hazrat Mahal might give him the appointment he so clearly desired.

He wished that he could form a working alliance with Mirza Guffur, but the old artillery commander, whilst he disliked and mistrusted the Moulvi, was a good deal in awe of him. If there were to be a showdown, the old man would support his co-religionist. Of that there was little doubt, especially if a Hindu voice should be raised against him. It would therefore be wise to remain silent for as long as he could, Gomundi Singh knew … at all events until any damaging accusations were made. The situation would be vastly improved if only Man Singh would agree to join the council, but the wily Hindu leader had refused to do so and had told him privately only the previous evening that unless assured that the British cause was irretrievably lost he intended to hold aloof—and possibly even retire with his troops to his own stronghold at Shahgunge. Indeed, he had sheltered a number of British fugitives there and given them safe conduct to Lucknow.

The Moulvi turned away from the window. He said unpleasantly, as if he had read Gomundi Singh's thoughts, “I am told, General Singh, that you paid a visit to Man Singh yesterday evening, but failed to persuade him to attend our council meeting?”

“I … yes, that is so, Moulvi Sahib.”

“But you did not see fit to inform me of what transpired between you!” the Moulvi accused. “Had you done so, it would have spared me the unnecessary humiliation of receiving his refusal when I called upon him this morning.”

Gomundi Singh was visibly disconcerted. “
You
called on the Lord Man Singh, Moulvi Sahib? I was not aware of your intention. Indeed, I—”

“Naturally I called on him. We require his aid. He has an army camped in our midst and must declare either for us or against us. Why did you not tell me what he said to you?”

Gomundi Singh flushed guiltily. Much of what Man Singh had said to him—had been confidential and he knew that he must guard his tongue, lest the Moulvi accuse him of treachery. “There was little opportunity,” he defended plaintively. “Yesterday, you will recall, I was with my troops doing battle with Havelock Sahib. But I had, I assure you, intended to convey his views to the council, as he requested of me. The Lord Man Singh fears that—”

“And what does the Lord Man Singh fear, General Sahib?” The interruption came from the curtained archway at the entrance to the council chamber and Gomundi Singh turned, startled, to see that the Begum had entered, with her escort, and was regarding him with searching eyes. But her tone was neither angry nor accusing, and taking heart from this, he answered boldly, explaining Man Singh's uncertainty and the reasons underlying it.

Hazrat Mahal let him speak for a moment or two and then held up a small hand for silence, the gesture directed also at the Moulvi, who had hurried to her side to greet her with an obsequious
salaam
. “I have news for all of you,” she announced and Gomundi Singh saw that she was smiling.

“News, Begum-ji?” old Mirza Guffur echoed. “Good news, I trust?”

“Very good news, General
Bahadur
,” the Begum assured him triumphantly. She waited, savouring her triumph, and then, satisfied that she had their full attention, continued in ringing tones, “I myself called on Man Singh before coming here. He has given me his word that he will join us.”

“
Here
, Begum Sahiba?” Gomundi Singh demanded, surprised out of his normal caution. “At the council meeting?”

“At the council meeting
and
with all his troops in the field!” Hazrat Mahal returned. She and Mammu Khan exchanged glances and the Moulvi-always the first to recover from any momentary surprise—asked suspiciously, “But at what price did you buy his allegiance, Begum Sahiba? There is a price to be paid, is there not?”

“Naturally there is a price,” Mammu Khan put in harshly.

“And what is it?” the Moulvi persisted. His dark eyes were blazing in his pale thin face, the beetling brows drawn together in a wrathful scowl, as if he already knew the answer to his question and the knowledge displeased him mightily.

The Begum said, her voice now gentle and persuasive, “We are to put right yesterday's errors, Moulvi Sahib. Only a paltry handful of General Havelock's
lal-kote
soldiers have succeeded in entering the Residency—we are to make sure that no more do so, neither men nor guns. An attack must be launched on the Mod Munzil Palace and none must be permitted to escape.”

“It was in any case our intention to attack the Moti Munzil,” Mirza Guffur told her. “General Singh's troops have surrounded the palace and my guns opened fire at first light. The British have more wounded than fighting men to protect them and the
dhoolie
bearers are afraid. They will take flight the instant they come under our fire.”

“Havelock Sahib will have to send a force from the Residency to their aid, Begum Sahiba,” Gomundi Singh added eagerly. “We are waiting only for word that they will do this and then we shall commence our attack. I do not believe that the Lord Man Singh's demand is unreasonable. We can meet it.”

Contemptuously, the Moulvi cut him short. “That is not the full price, is it, Hazrat Mahal?” His tone was bitter. “Man Singh demands more … he seeks command of our whole army, does he not? Sepoys as well as Irregulars?”

Hazrat Mahal did not try to prevaricate. “He asks for such a command,
Pir Moorshid
.” She laid a slim, jewel-bedecked hand on his arm, entreating his understanding. “But only until the British are driven from Lucknow. Then he will relinquish it. He asks also that we send a
cossid
, in our joint names, to the Nana and to Tantia Topi—who, as you know, now commands the Gwalior troops on the Nana's behalf—urging them to launch an immediate attack on Cawnpore. A very weak force has been left there to defend the city. It will fall, since General Havelock will be unable to send aid now. With both Lucknow and Cawnpore in our hands, victory in Oudh will be assured.” She smiled into his resentful eyes. “Have patience, Ahmad Ullah … you are
my
choice as commander. But it behooves us to go carefully. First we must defeat General Havelock and the formidable warrior who has accompanied him to the Residency … General Outram. These are brave, experienced soldiers, whom we must match and defeat decisively before we claim victory.”

“True, Highness,” the Moulvi conceded. “But we—” He was interrupted by the arrival of a
jemadar
of the 7th Cavalry who burst in to announce excitedly that a force was being assembled in the Residency, preparatory to a sally.

“They will assuredly try to save their wounded and the guns left behind in the Moti Munzil,” he finished, breathing hard. “I observed that they have gun-cattle with them but no guns, and they are led by a Sahib with one arm, who is well known to me from Ajodhabad. Sheridan Sahib, of the Light Cavalry.”

“Sheridan Sahib!”
the Moulvi exclaimed in shocked dismay. Hazrat Mahal waved him to silence.

“The time has come,” she stated, with emphasis. “We will adjourn this council meeting.” Turning to the two old generals, she added urgently, “Do not delay. Go at once to your commands. Wipe out the
feringhis
to the last man! Victory will be ours if you do your work well.”

Both men saluted and started towards the curtained archway, but the Moulvi, moving swiftly, was before them.

“I will give you victory, Hazrat Mahal!” he promised. “If you will give me the chief command until tomorrow's dawn. Do not fear that I shall fail. I have a score to settle with an old adversary.”

“With Sheridan Sahib?” Hazrat Mahal suggested. “Well …” she hesitated for a moment and then inclined her head. “So be it, Ahmad Ullah. May Allah be with you and give you strength!”

THE SO-CALLED Indian Mutiny was, in fact, not a rebellion throughout the whole vast country but the revolt of one of the three Presidency Armies—that of Bengal, which consisted of 150,000 hitherto loyal and well-disciplined native troops, commanded by British officers in the employ of the Honourable East India Company.